


To Make It Right

by abrassaxe



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Hanzo is bad at feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, McCree is less bad at feelings, alcohol use, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7487214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrassaxe/pseuds/abrassaxe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCree’s never fancied a fella who didn’t make him worry some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Make It Right

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before Blackwatch!Genji became a thing, and there are some inaccuracies as a result. But the McHanzo should still be good. ;)

Some things happen so slowly, it seems a miracle when anything comes of it. A collision of tectonic plates becomes a pimple on the face of the earth. Becomes a mountain. Others happen so quickly that time slows only for the observer, which is a miracle of its own. Like when the snow shakes loose from the mountainside and rushes on down the slope at 80 miles per hour. Happens fast. Looks slow. McCree hasn’t exactly seen an avalanche in his day, but he thinks of one as he watches – and he can only watch – as Hanzo cuts men to ribbons with a sword that wasn’t even made with him in mind. Doesn’t matter. He moves like he was born with it in his hand. It takes hardly a minute. None of this Hollywood batting each other around. No time for that. Pure, beautiful efficiency. And a hell of a lot of blood. Talon’s gonna need some new hire after this one. Boy howdy.  
  
When the room is finally quiet, McCree feels like he’s been watching Hanzo forever. And he doesn’t hate it. He should mind more. Mind being outta bullets. Mind that he hasn’t so much as given somebody a punch in the teeth in what feels like several minutes too long. Some sense of reality returns with the jarring clang of steel on concrete. Hanzo is looking at his hands, empty, now, and red. Even from his safe point of vantage, McCree can see them shaking. Hanzo’s knees buckle.   
  
“Whoa, there…” Some niggling little thing in the back of his mind warns that it might not be safe to approach. Doesn’t fuss him much. “You’re lookin’ a touch pasty, friend.”  
  
“I killed him.” It’s a ragged whisper, torn to bits in the effort it takes to get the words out. “I killed him.”  
  
“I dunno if you’re aware, but you’ve killed your fair share of folks –”  
  
“You do not understand!” Hanzo snarls like he’s been cornered, bristling to the ends of his hair. That might almost be normal, but for the hard edge that’s come into his voice. Some broken thing that doesn’t belong in the light.  
  
“Beginning to sense I might be missing something, yeah.” McCree knows, mostly from misguided experience, that Hanzo is not the touchy-feelsy sort. Unfortunately, what he doesn’t know, is exactly what to do with that. Comfort ain’t one of his strong suits, and it’s plain that comfort is what Hanzo could use right about now. “Hey, look here.” He kneels, trying to catch Hanzo’s eye. All he sees is blind panic. The kind of terror you’d expect in a man reliving a nightmare. “We’ve gotta move. If the cavalry shows up, we’re sunk.” Against his better judgment, he gives Hanzo’s shoulders a shake. “C’mon, darlin’.” Another shake, and Hanzo stirs from the awful reverie he’s fallen into, blinking it out of his eyes, finding his feet. McCree nudges the sword away with his toe. Hanzo glances between the discarded weapon, and the carcasses he’s made with it. He looks like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff. And he’s wobbling. McCree sweeps off his hat. Plunks it right on Hanzo’s head, bristling ponytail and all. He’s none too sure why that feels like the thing to do. But it works. Hanzo run his fingers bemusedly along the brim of the hat.  
  
“It’s a poor fit,” he says, frowning.  
  
“Still looks good on you. But let’s go on and get while the getting’s still good. Rest of the team’s waiting.” Hanzo gives an almost imperceptible nod. Curiously, he does not remove the hat.  
  
“Swiftly, then. I have delayed us.”  
  
By now, McCree’s grown used to following Hanzo’s lead. He’s silent as snow and quick as a rattlesnake. And he has a mind for the layout of facilities like these. The cameras will have spotted them, but it doesn’t matter. Got what they came for. It’s a momentary distraction to think that the fate of the world rests, from time to time, on keeping ahold of a microchip smaller than his thumbnail. In a pinch, one or the other of them could swallow it to keep Talon from getting their paws on it. Not that he’s here to save the world, exactly. Even back in the day, running with Reyes, that wasn’t so much the plan. Mostly the plan had been “maybe don’t rot in a max security prison ‘til the trumpets sound.” Which, for a patented Jesse McCree Plan, hadn’t been so bad.  
  
For now, he’s tailing Hanzo. Ain’t a bad place to be. The view don’t smart too bad, neither. Harder to enjoy when he’s worried as all this, but worry seems to come with the territory. He’s never fancied a fella who didn’t make him worry some. Hanzo makes him worry a whole heap. He’ll still be worried once they group back up with the others. When they settle back in at HQ. Secrets are easy to spot. Hanzo’s got plenty swimming around in that handsome noggin of his, and he holds on hard. McCree doesn’t mind staying out of it. But that don’t make it easy.  
  
“Listen –”  
  
“There they are!”  
  
“ _Shit_.” It’s a stroke of luck that the team leader doesn’t have the sense God gave a goat, hollering like that. It gives them time to round the corner, break line of sight. It won’t last. Those Talon folks do their cardio. Hanzo plants his feet.  
  
“Go,” he hisses through his teeth.  
  
“Not happening.”  
  
“Go!” McCree squares his shoulders. Gets to scowling.  
  
“If you’re fixin’ to make a heroic sacrifice, I reckon you’re about to be disappointed.” His hand clamps around Hanzo’s wrist. Having a tin left hand ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, but he’s got a solid grip on account. Not that Hanzo couldn’t have him on the flat of his back in two shakes. Instead, he budges, remembers he’s got a good pair of mechanical feet down there. There’s a plenty going on behind those gorgeous eyes, conflict, guilt, a certain will to self-annihilation… And mercifully, gloriously, mischief.  
  
“Flashbang?” he asks, and McCree has to chortle.  
  
“Yeah.” The timing couldn’t be better. McCree rips the grenade off his belt, ducks around the corner. “Hold up!” All eyes, and probably all barrels, are pinned on him. And the canister goes skittering toward the feet of the strike team. Smart enough to back up, it seems, but that’s the longest look McCree wants to take before he’s off. Even scurrying away, he and Hanzo are a little closer than the thing than’s necessarily wise. The shockwave still breaks over them as they boot it down the hallway. Out of the corner of his eye, McCree glimpses Hanzo holding onto his hat to keep it from blowing away. He might even have said something, but a brilliant blue flicker and a whoop catches his attention.  
  
“There you are, loves!” Tracer zips by them. Rat-tat-tat-tat – _kaboom!_ There goes the neighbourhood. And the strike team. “Wicked!” Tracer’s with them again in a blink, grinning bright as daisies. “Winston and I were starting to worry, so we thought we’d pop in for a quick hello!” There’s a sudden sound of breaking glass as Winston comes in through the window like a gorilla-shaped battering ram. Hanzo skids to a stop, does his best not to look like a startled cat. It almost works. For a second, their eyes meet. McCree nods. Hanzo tips his hat like a real gentleman. Like he’d rehearsed. It’s hot as hell. They’re off before anyone can catch McCree blushing over it. Out through the window and down. Running across the grounds, into the night. Pick up’s waiting. Made it.  
  
It’s a quiet ride home. Well, as quiet as it can be when Lena Oxton’s along for the trip. Girl’s got the gift of gab, chattering away like she’s got to get all her words in before she disappears. Since that could actually happen, McCree can’t blame her. Hanzo’s off on another world, so deep into his thoughts he barely blinks. It’s all sinking in. McCree’s mind fixes on the memory of blood running between the tiles. The clatter of a pilfered sword, ringing in his ears along with the sense that there’s something he doesn’t know, yet. _I killed him. I killed him._ It’s like a canker sore. He can’t keep from tonguing at it, but salting it better is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch. Their arrival at the Watchpoint comes not a moment too soon, but McCree knows as soon as his feet hit the ramp that Hanzo’s likely to crawl into the smallest, darkest space he can find, to avoid talking about what had happened. So McCree does what any decent sharpshooter would do. He shoots first.  
  
“Y’know, one of these days, I’m gonna need my hat back.” Hanzo freezes. Direct hit.  
  
“I –” He sweeps it off at once, red to the tips of his ears.  
  
“How ‘bout you and me have a sit down and a couple of drinks while we discuss the terms of its safe return?” Smooth as bourbon. McCree flashes a smile. Hanzo takes a furtive look around, as if for fear of being seen to agree. McCree decides he likes the way Hanzo looks, clutching that good ol’ cowboy hat to his chest like that.  
  
“I…” Hanzo frowns his way through the rest of the sentence. “Yes.” And he doesn’t return the hat.  
  
“My quarters?” When Hanzo shakes his head in answer, McCree’s guts twist into a right proper knot, which unties in the next instant.  
  
“Mine.”  
  
“I’ll bring the whiskey.”  


* * *

  
Personal quarters aren’t exactly a thing at the Watchpoint. Not like in the old days. Nobody really gets the chance to decorate. Most personal effects belong in lockers. Not everyone gets their own space. But the room assignments are consistent, and after awhile, bits and pieces of their tenants’ personalities start to rub off. Hanzo’s quarters are immaculate. Immaculate, but still somehow possessed of that vital impulse that makes a place feel lived-in. Not homey, exactly, but lived-in. McCree leans on the doorframe, a bottle of Jack dangling from his fingers. Hadn’t even had time to crack it open, lately. No time like the present.  
  
“Brought glasses, too,” McCree announces. “Been keeping ‘em around for a rainy day. No ice, though. Hope you like it neat.”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“How’s my hat?”  
  
“Safe.” Then, a smirk, albeit one that doesn’t quite stick. “For the moment.”  
  
Hanzo beckons, and McCree crosses the threshold, lets the door click shut behind him. He wiggles the bottle a little.  
  
“Brought the ransom.”  
  
“Excellent. Sit.” Hanzo plucks the bottle and glasses from McCree’s hands, sets them on the little end table, which is the most furniture these cramped quarters have to offer. It begins to set in that they’re very, very close to each other.  
  
“Here?” McCree glances at the bed. His hat is resting on the pillow. Hanzo is either adept at ignoring the tension, or is oblivious to it, and only nods. For his part, McCree doesn’t know how to get to talking about what happened from manners. Or if they should. Hanzo pours them a finger of whiskey each. McCree takes the glass. Their hands touch. Just barely. His heart’s starting to beat a little fast. Nervous. He watches Hanzo knock back his shot. The little bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows it down. God, he’s beautiful. Not to be outdone, McCree drains his glass instead of saying so. This bed is rock hard. No surprises there.  
  
“You have questions,” Hanzo observes, as he pours them both another drink. He still doesn’t sit. McCree learned early that the man drinks like the end is nigh. These could be the first fiery sips of many.  
  
“I got a few, yeah.” He pauses. Frowns. “That okay?” ‘Okay,’ doesn’t seem like the right word, and the question hangs on it for a heartbeat. “I mean, if you’d rather I stay out of it…” Hanzo shakes his head.  
  
“It was a long time ago.” Another silence stretches between them, and the whiskey goes untouched. “When I was… I have…” Hanzo’s lips form into a hard line, and McCree keeps his mouth shut. “I swore that I would never pick up a sword again.” His fingertips drum against the sides of the tumbler. The next breath he takes comes slow, heavy with the words he shapes with it. “As penance for my brother,” he says.  
  
Genji Shimada ain’t no stranger, but McCree only knows him peripherally. They hadn’t run any missions together, yet. Hadn’t traded more than ten words with the fella. He knows he’s cybernetically enhanced. Almost all machine, by the look of him. What he hadn’t known, was how he got that way, or why.  
  
“But he’s –”  
  
“It was my doing. I thought I had killed him. And then…” Hanzo’s eyes seem to darken, his jaw tightening around the words. “Whatever he was, before, I have destroyed it. I am haunted by what I have done. And I broke my oath.” His grip tightens on his glass, as if he might shatter it in his hand, and he stares hard into the trembling amber. He sets it aside a little too hard, empty hands flexing for want of something new to busy them.  
  
“Hey…” McCree cranes from where he’s sitting, looking up into that stricken face. “We’ve all done ugly things. Real ugly, sometimes. Me? Used to run with the Deadlock gang. Smuggled weapons. Innocent people got hurt. Probably more than I know. I’d be worse off if it didn’t wake me up at night.”  
  
“My guilt might have killed us.”  
  
“There’s plenty of things that might have killed us. Stray bullet. A well-placed grenade. My devastating good looks. You name it. But y’know what kept us from eating a whole peck of lead today? You, snagging that sword at the last second. It’s all right, Hanzo.”  
  
“I do not need forgiveness.”  
  
“Then what can I do ya for? You’re carrying a wound that I can’t reach. I’m not about to let you bleed.” McCree finds himself subject to the sudden need for his glass to be empty. He drains it quick, leaves it sit on the bed. He’s on his feet before he knows what he’s doing. And he knows he hasn’t had enough drink to make him this bold. It’s something else that he doesn’t dare call by name. He pulls Hanzo into his arms, holds him there, and waits for swift and terrible comeuppance. “You don’t gotta hurt all by your lonesome.”  
  
There’s a silence. At first it seems like the great sucking in of breath before a shout. The space between thunder and the next bolt of lightning. But nothing comes. Hanzo doesn’t shake him off, doesn’t slip out of his grip, put him through a wall, nothing. Slowly, he exhales. Maybe it’s finally the right time, McCree thinks.  
  
“Jesse.” Hanzo slips his arms around McCree’s waist, all careful-like. Like he’s afraid it might scare him off. Like something might change once he’s done it. Inside, McCree’s nothing but sparks ‘n’ fireworks. This is it. This is where he wants to be. Hanzo holds on a little tighter. “Thank you.”  
  
“Don’t you worry. I gotcha, darlin’. I gotcha.”  
  
“I don’t deserve –”  
  
“Sure, you do.” McCree pulls back to meet Hanzo’s eyes, desperate to be believed. “You’re trying to make it right, ain’tcha? No need to suffer to make things right.” He’d kiss it better, if he could. Kiss every sore spot on his heart. Maybe, sooner or later, the time’d come right for that, too. “Hey. I’m here for ya.”  
  
“That means a great deal to me,” Hanzo says, painstakingly, and after a moment of uncomfortable-looking deliberation. “And I am…” It takes so long for him to go on, it’s like he has to chew the words ten times each, before he can spit them out. “I am here for you, as well.” Talking feelings ain’t no walk in the park. Translating ‘em probably don’t make it any easier. It happens little by little, but Hanzo starts to smile. One of those devastating, half-sad smiles that breaks McCree’s heart, and then melts it down. It’s a mess, and he’s in it up past his elbows. Christ. This tension’s too much.  
  
“Now, about my hat…” Hanzo disentangles himself from their embrace and gets his mitts on that hat before McCree can think to grab it first (how could he, when it meant taking his hand off Hanzo’s hip?).  
  
“You have not paid your ransom in full,” Hanzo announces.  
  
“Bottle’s over there.” McCree jerks his chin toward the end table. He also takes a step back. The sudden businesslike tone that Hanzo’s taking with him gives him the distinct impression that he’s in for it. They’ve both got a knack for redirecting things when the situation gets a tad too emotional.  
  
“That was an offering,” Hanzo explains, pressing his advantage, the hat held deliberately behind his back. “One that I did not request.”  
  
“Got demands now, huh?”  
  
“One.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Be still,” Hanzo orders. Not much by way of a demand. So McCree holds still. He isn’t ready for how quickly the distance between them closes. Hanzo’s got a hold of him, callused fingers on the back of his neck, drawing him in. And it ain’t for no ass-kicking. That there’s a _kiss_. A genuine lip-lock. Everything stops. Hanzo kisses like it’s their last chance, like they’ll be ripped away from each other if he hesitates for even a second. His fingers are rough in McCree’s hair, holding on hard. And McCree? He’s melting. Eyes snapped shut, blood running twice as hot and three times as fast. Electric. Alive. His hands find their way to the small of Hanzo’s back. Whiskey. He’s tasting whiskey. He’s never wanted another taste of the stuff so badly. The kiss breaks. And before he can get his head back on straight, he’s got a face-full of hat.  
  
“Your ransom is paid,” Hanzo declares, a little breathless, to McCree’s satisfaction. “Take your hat and go. Before I change my mind.”  
  
“Not so sure that’d be a problem.” McCree tucks his thumbs in his belt loops, grinning for all he’s worth. Hanzo looks him over from smirk to spurs, then scowls.  
  
“ _Out_.”  
  
“Yessir.” McCree bumps into the door not once, but twice, stumbling out into the hallway, clutching his hat to his chest. He walks on, numbly, for another few steps before he has to stop. “ _Golly_.”  
  
Safely out of earshot, on the other side of the door, Hanzo rakes his fingers through his hair.  
  
“ _Hmph._ ”


End file.
